Destiny (19 page)

Gripping the sword, Annja willed it away. The weapon faded from sight.

Roux grinned in wonder. “Splendid!”

Garin cursed. “You're a fool, old man. Now that the sword is whole again, we're no longer cursed to walk the earth after it. We're no longer immortal.”

“Long-lived,” Roux argued. “Not immortal. Long-lived. And that remains to be seen, doesn't it?” He looked at the kitchen area. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“Orange juice,” Annja said. “Or tea.”

“Juice, if you please.”

Annja got a glass and filled it with orange juice. She took it to Roux. “What's your interest in this?”

“In the sword?”

She nodded.

“I don't know that I have one,” Roux replied. “The sword is complete. I'm not sure what happens now. “

“I know about the curse.”

“I suppose you do.” Roux sipped his drink. “At any rate, it may well be that my part in this whole affair is over. I truly hope that it is. I have other pursuits I'd like to follow. I'm going to be playing in a Texas Hold 'em Tournament soon and I've qualified for a senior's tour in golf.”

“Did you know you're listed as a suspect in Doris Cooper's murder?” Annja asked.

“No. Though it doesn't surprise me.”

“Did you do it?”

“No.”

“Did Garin?”

“I don't even know anyone named Doris Cooper,” Garin protested.

“I don't know,” Roux said. “Doris was a good person. Too trusting, perhaps, but a good person.”

“Why didn't you try to clear your name?” Annja asked.

“Hollywood was a rat's nest in those days,” Roux said. “If the Los Angeles Police Department was determined to pin the woman's murder on me—and I tell you right now that they were—they would have done it. I left the country as soon as I knew they were looking for me.” He paused. “Do you want to talk about things that have no bearing on where you're going or what you're going to do? Or do you want to discuss the sword?”

Before Annja could answer, the phone rang. She considered letting the answering service pick up, but she decided she wanted a few minutes of diversion. Things were coming at her too quickly.

“Hello?”

“Miss Creed?” The voice was urbane, accented, and almost familiar.

“Yes,” Annja said. “Who is this?”

“Corvin Lesauvage. We met briefly in Lozère.”

“I remember you, Mr. Lesauvage,” Annja replied. Her thoughts spun. Glancing at Roux and Garin, she saw that both of the men were listening with interest. “You were trying to have me abducted, as I recall.”

“Yes, well, I've had to reconsider that. I still want that charm you found and I've had to find new leverage to achieve that goal.”

“I don't have the charm,” Annja said. “I told you that.”

“Then you'll have to get it, Miss Creed,” Lesauvage said. “Because if you don't, Avery Moreau will die and his death will be on your head.”

For just a moment, the loft seemed to spin around Annja. She stood with effort, remembering the young man who had been her guide in Lozère.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“If I don't get that charm, Miss Creed,” Corvin Lesauvage said, “I'm going to kill Avery Moreau. Do you have Internet access?” His voice oozed self-satisfaction.

“Yes.”

“Log on, please, and go to this Internet address—LesauvageAntiquities.com.”

Waving Garin away from the desk, Annja opened the Web page. It was attractive, neat and precise, with everything in place. The casual peruser knew immediately that Lesauvage Antiquities did business in appraisal and research, as well as purchases and sales of antiques. It was a nice cover for a man who was a drug runner, thief and murderer.

“The Web link I'm about to give you is masked,” Lesauvage said. “You'll have to be quick.”

Annja didn't say anything. Roux had gotten up and stood behind her, whether out of interest or to help protect her from any attempt Garin made, Annja didn't know.

“Click on appraisals, then hit the F12 key immediately,” Lesauvage ordered.

Annja did.

The Web page cycled, then stopped. A window popped up and asked for an ID and password.

“Okay,” Annja said.

“Good. The ID is ‘Avery.' The password is ‘Mort,'” Lesauvage said.

Mort
was French for “death.” Reluctantly, Annja entered the keystrokes.

Another window opened. This one filled with a video download that took forty-three seconds. When it finished, it opened and played.

There was no audio, but the video feed was clear enough. Avery Moreau, tied up and dressed in some garish costume, lay on a flat rock in a cave. Blood covered his face. There was too much blood for it to be his without some obvious sign of injury.

Wearing a similar costume but with a mounted-deer-head helmet, Lesauvage entered the camera's view. He raised a knife, then drove the blade down into Avery's left hand, all the way through to the rock beneath.

Avery jerked in pain and screamed. Even without the audio, Annja could hear his agony and fear.

Garin swore.

Thankfully, the video ended.

Annja was breathing deeply. “What do you want, Lesauvage?”

“As I told you, I only want the charm. Bring it to me and I will let Avery Moreau live. If you do not, I will kill him. Make your travel arrangements. Once you know when you will return to Lozère, let me know. I can be reached at this number at any time.” He gave her the number and the phone clicked dead.

Annja cradled the handset.

“A threat?” Roux asked.

“Lesauvage is going to kill Avery Moreau if I don't bring the charm back.”

“Well, that's a shame,” the old man said, “but you can't be expected to save everyone.”

“I'm not going to let him die,” Annja said and immediately started looking on the computer for flight possibilities.

Roux stared at her. “You can't be serious. That man is a villain of the basest sort.”

“I know the type,” Annja said.

Garin grinned at her. “So you're going to rush off and play the savior.”

“I'm not going to let Avery Moreau die.” Annja backed up all her files on the charm, the heraldry and the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain onto an external hard drive.

“Lesauvage will kill you,” Roux protested. “The sword will be lost again.”

“One can only hope,” Garin said.

“I'm not planning on dying,” Annja said. She looked for her suitcase, then realized it was still at the Lamberts' bed-and-breakfast outside Lozère.

All right, then, I'm already packed. All I have to do is live long enough to collect my luggage.

“Don't be foolish,” Roux said. “You don't even have the charm.”

“I took pictures of it,” Annja said. She brought them up on the computer.

“How did you do that? You didn't have time to photograph it like this in Lozère.”

“I summoned it up on the sword,” Annja explained as she stuffed gear into her backpack.

“It's still part of the sword?”

“I don't know. Maybe.” Annja lifted the phone.

“Call the police in Lozère,” Roux urged. “Let them know what is going on.”

“Do you remember Police Inspector Richelieu?” Annja asked.

“Yes.”

“He shot Avery Moreau's father.”

“Whatever for?”

“Gerard Moreau was a thief. He broke into the house where Richelieu happened to be entertaining the wife.”

“It wasn't the inspector's wife, was it?” Roux said.

“No.” Annja dialed information and asked for the number to Air France.

“Excuse me,” Garin said.

Annja looked at him.

“I've got a private plane. Actually, a Learjet, at LaGuardia.”

“You'd let me use your jet?” Annja asked, surprised.

“If it's going to allow Lesauvage to kill you more quickly, certainly.” Garin appeared quite earnest.

“You're going with us.” Annja hung up the phone.

“Us?” Roux repeated.

“We're not finished talking about the sword, are we?” Annja asked the old man.

“Perhaps,” Roux said.

“Fine,” she told him. “Then you can stay here. If Garin and his pilot jump out of the plane somewhere over the Atlantic and I go down, you can hope you don't have to wait another five hundred years for the sword to wash up on some beach.”

Roux grimaced. “If I was certain my part in all of this was finished, I wouldn't entertain this at all.”

“Why am I going?” Garin asked.

“Because I don't trust you not to have someone fire a heat-seeking missile at us while we're en route. If you're along for the trip, I figure that's less likely to happen.” Annja didn't know if Garin could actually get his hands on something like that, but she wouldn't put it past him.

“That's
your
reason to get me to go,” Garin said. “
I
don't have a reason.”

“If you go,” Annja said, “maybe you'll get to see Lesauvage kill me.”

Garin thought about that briefly. “Good point.”

 

G
ARIN
'
S PRIVATE JET WAS
outfitted like a bachelor pad with wings. It was divided into three sections. The cockpit was the most mundane thing about the aircraft. The living quarters and the bedroom shared equal space and came with a personal flight attendant.

Annja sat in one of the plush seats. Equipped with a wet bar and the latest in technological marvels, including a sixty-inch plasma television and a Bose surround sound system, in-flight entertainment was no problem. There was also a satellite link for phones and computers.

The bedroom, which Annja had not seen and had no intention of seeing, contained a king-size bed.

Garin and Roux had settled into their seats and started watching a televised poker championship.

Hooked up to the Internet, Annja continued her research into the Brotherhood of the Silent Rain and the charm. Those were at the heart of the mystery before her.

There were new postings at alt.archaeology and alt.archaeology.esoterica.

Two were from Zoodio.

 

Hey! I traced that shield heraldry you posted. Interesting stuff.

From what I found out, the shield belonged to a British knight named Richard of Kirkland. He was thought to be a great-grandson of one of the English soldiers that burned Joan of Arc at the stake in France.

 

A chill passed through Annja. She hadn't expected the hit to be tied so closely to Joan.

 

Supposedly, the great-grandfather's luck turned sour after he got back from France. Devotees of Joan swear he was cursed.

Anyway, that curse seems to have passed down to his great-grandson, who somehow got himself titled along the way. He had a daughter in 1749 who was supposed to have horrible birth defects.

If you're not careful when you do your research, you'll find entries that list her as dead. She even has a gravesite in a private cemetery outside London. Her name was Carolyn. In 1764, Sir Richard of Kirkland took his daughter to the Brotherhood of The Silent Rain.

 

Why not an abbey? Annja wondered again.

 

Some reports say Carolyn died in 1767 when the monastery was destroyed. Hope this helps.

It did and it didn't, Annja ultimately decided. She skimmed through the list of sources he'd included. Many of them were on personal Web sites so she was able to check them out.

She saved the Web links to Favorites, then read the next posting by [email protected].

 

Zoodio has it wrong. Sir Richard's daughter wasn't his daughter after all. She was his wife's illegitimate child. While Sir Richard was off fighting in one of the wars, his wife was having an affair with one of the inbred members of the royal family. Which was why there were so many birth defects in the child.

The wife also tried to abort the child, and even the church got involved because of all the political unrest the baby would cause.

Despite everything everyone did, the baby went to term. When Sir Richard got home, knowing that he wasn't the father—can you imagine how pissed this guy was, out risking his life, and his wife's shacking up?—he probably had to be restrained from killing the baby and his wife.

The church, trying to cover its own ass, told Richard that a demon had fathered the child. They arranged for the baby girl, when she got to be fourteen, to go to the Silent Rain monastery. Can you say cop-out?

 

“Annja?”

Startled, she looked up and saw Roux standing there. “What?”

“Would you like something to eat?”

“Whatever you want to nuke in the microwave will be fine.”

“No nuking,” Roux responded. “There's a full galley.”

“Do you think it's safe?” she asked. “I mean, he could poison the food.”

Roux smiled gently at her. “I'll make sure that doesn't happen.”

“All right.”

“What would you like?”

“Surprise me.”

Roux nodded. He started to turn away.

“Hey,” Annja said.

The old man turned back around to her. “What?”

“You've really lived over five hundred years?”

He smiled and shook his head. “My dear girl, I've lived far longer than you can even imagine.”

Whatever, Annja thought, thinking the comment was sheer braggadocio. “Did you know a knight named Sir Richard of Kirkland?”

“An English knight?”

Annja nodded.

“I knew of such a man, but I never knew him personally. He was—”

“English. I know. I got it. English was bad back then.”

“Yes.” Roux's blue eyes twinkled. “He was a tournament champion all over Europe. And he fought in a few skirmishes. There was something about a child that besmirched his reputation. A child born out of wedlock, I believe.”

“A child the church contended was spawn of the devil,” Annja said. “And she was locked up in the Silent Rain monastery.”

“Truly?” Roux seemed amazed.

“Yes.”

“Why wasn't she taken to an abbey? Several of the female children born in brothels were taken there.”

“I don't know.”

“If you find out—”

Annja nodded. She returned to her reading.

“I'll go and attend to our lunch,” Roux said. “Then, at some point, you and I need to discuss what's going to happen with the sword.”

Three spam entries followed the one by Researchferret. Then Zoodio had posted again.

 

I missed that one. Good catch.

Interesting. I looked at the data you sent to support what you posted, Researchferret. And I found something you missed.

According to the journals of Sister Mary Elizabeth of a local London abbey, the sisters took in a fourteen-year-old girl early in 1764.

Sir Richard's name isn't mentioned. Neither is the girl's. But it does say she's the illegitimate child of a tournament hero and thought to be the daughter of the devil.

Sounds familiar, huh?

 

Annja silently agreed.

 

Also truly weird are the murders that occurred in the abbey in 1764.

 

That instantly caught Annja's attention.

 

Early in 1764, January and February, two nuns, then a third, were beaten to death in the basement of the main building. The rumor was that an insane man had broken into the building and killed the nuns while looking for church silver or donations to pilfer.

However, Sister Mary Elizabeth notes that the strange girl the abbey had taken in murdered the nuns. According to her entries during those days and the days that followed, the girl had been restrained in the basement, had gotten loose, and had beaten the nuns to death with her bare hands.

Yikes!

This story gets creepier and stranger the more I look into it. More later.

 

Of course, that entry started a flurry of postings that included Jack the Ripper theories and led to the Loch Ness Monster before taking a detour through the twilight zone.